Oh now, that's not fair, she can't get emotional too. He blows a breath out, reasserting control. Though they steward the Porter from this careful distance, the White Tower does not control it. No one does. Arrival is arbitrary, pure random chance, even he knows that in spite of his bitter anger.

Rey, for all her careful, clever machinations, couldn't produce Pepper Potts as she is right now, older and even more arresting than he remembered. Wherever she's come from, life has gone on for her, and not just alone, no, but with him. She's really here.

"It's okay," he assures her, and that's all it takes to break past the imaginary line he had yet to cross between them, forcing himself to keep his hands off her suit. "A lot has happened since, god, it's been ten years. You look amazing."

"What's all this," Stark continues hurriedly, before the lump in his throat can find purchase, gesturing at her gorgeous suit, "So you finally let me build you one, what's her makeup– are those, nanites–"